


As Long As There Are Dreams

by htbthomas



Category: Secret of Kells (2009)
Genre: Anthology Piece, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Gen, Ireland, Orphans, Yuletide 2013
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 19:59:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htbthomas/pseuds/htbthomas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aisling flits in and out of the lives of children throughout Irish history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Long As There Are Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bard/gifts).



> Thank you to my betas, lilliburlero and digitalis, both for helping with brainstorming and the major reworking the story needed after the first draft.
> 
> Also to northern_star and foxtwin for needed encouragement when I was sure I'd never get it up to snuff.

  
_“Every age, after all, must have its own aisling and dream of a better, kinder, happier, shared world.”_ —Michael D. Higgins

_1._

Aisling can still see her.

Mother.

Mother strokes Aisling’s long white hair and smiles, her eyes at times filled with joy, at times filled with worry. Or she nuzzles Aisling with her wet, black nose, urging her to move along. Aisling walks with unsteady spindly legs through the underbrush, or wiggles insistently against the stream as Mother paces her, shimmering scales flashing in the morning light, ever watchful. But always, Mother is there.

And then she is not. 

The memories are of dark and pain, of gnashing teeth and screams. The great Crom Cruach and his terrible rage. Aisling does not know why her family must suffer, why she alone survives

She lives in shadows and fear for endless moons, hundreds of years as humans name them, hiding her true form amongst the creatures whom Mother taught her to become. And then the darkness slowly lifts. The other spirits, they murmur in the leaves of the trees—tension, worry, then silence. When she allows her consciousness to emerge again… something is different.

The human calls himself Pádraig. He walks the land, destroying the old ways. Some say he wields a sledgehammer, others a staff. The other spirits curse his name and flee. Crom Cruach is one of them, gone to hiding places himself. So though she never meets him, never sees him except through the memories of the creatures whose path he crosses, Pádraig feels like an ally.

More years pass, and those who league themselves with Pádraig and his beliefs build a tower near Aisling's forest. She does not trust them, they invade the sanctity of her forest far too often. But their comings and goings trouble her little more than an eddy in the brook.

Some time later—she does not feel time the same way as those in the tower—there is Brendan. As with the others, she does not trust him, but she finds he is different. This boy, too, has lost his family. She appears to him as Mother knew her, young and slight.

And there is also Pangur Bán, the cat. Mother never taught her to take this particular creature’s form. They mingle spirits—Aisling feels what it is to stalk her prey, to rub herself against a leg and purr, Pangur Bán learns to fade through walls and soar to heights not accessible even to nimble claws.

They are her friends.

When Brendan must face Crom Cruach, Aisling gives her all for his aid. So he may bring his magical book to life with the Eye.

He thinks her dead, her life force drained like the blood of his kindred on the swords of the North Men. Or transformed into the wolf, only watching from afar.

Aisling is not dead. A human must pass into the mists they speak of. Not she. Even if she must take new form, as long as there are dreams, Aisling lives.

_2._

He sits in the shade of the ash tree, whispering to himself a stream of words more flowing than a river, and nearly as endless. The spirits shiver at his presence, the grasses sussurate in warning, the wind breaks its path to swirl around him. 

Aisling watches him, blinking, through the gaps in the leaves, as she once did with Brendan. The scent of his fear rises toward her in jagged yet invisible lines.

She does not know how long she has avoided human contact—it seems all at once many hundreds of years or only a day—only watching their battles and victories, joys and sorrows from afar. The humans have always fascinated her, but none have called her as this boy’s spirit calls to her. Curious, she slithers closer, making out his whisperings when she is an arm’s breadth from him.

“Once upon a time, it befell Ailill and Medb that, when their royal bed had been prepared for them in Ráth Crúachain in Connacht, they spoke together as they lay on their pillow. ‘In truth, woman’ said Ailill, ‘she is a well-off woman who is the wife of a nobleman’. ‘She is indeed’ said the woman. ‘Why do you think so?’ ‘I think so’ said Ailill, ‘because you are better off today than when I married you’. ‘I was well-off before marrying you’, said Medb.”

Aisling recognizes the humans the boy speaks of, she passed through those very lands during her endless years between Brendan and now. There is much more to the story, words spoken between the lines of the tale, and later on, a woman who was not a woman at all, but another spirit like Aisling.

“Your tale—it suffers in the telling,” Aisling says, just above the boy, and he tumbles back, his eyes going wide, his dark curls stark against the greyish wood. She giggles at the sight. 

“Who—who are you?” He inches backward as he speaks. “And I learned this tale from my father, who was a great storyteller. How can you know it better than he?” 

“I am Aisling.” She giggles again. “And I was there,” she says, appearing beside him. 

He squeaks. “You were?”

She nods, giving no further explanation. Her head tilts as she studies him. “And you are?”

He hesitates in answering, though worry and keen interest duel on his face. “Se—” He stops. “No. Skelly. Skelly is my name.”

“You have more than one name?” She now perches from a branch above him. “Curious.”

He blinks at the sudden shift. “Skelly is the name my father gave me.” Then his gaze turns inward as he continues, “The magistrates tried to give me another name. So I fled.”

“Names are important,” Aisling agrees. “And now you are here, in my forest.”

Skelly gestures to the thick tangle of trees and plants that surround them, seeming more lush with the moment. “You live here?”

Aisling smiles. “I live everywhere.”

His eyes sparkle with the thought of such freedom, but the light quickly decays. “I only wanted to be one place. Learning my father’s craft at his side.”

“You have no other family?”

Skelly shakes his head. “The family that was fostering me cannot keep me now, either. But…” He turns toward the west, and the leaves part to cast golden afternoon light on his face. “I have heard that in Ulster there are those who treasure the old tales.”

“Is that where your feet lead you?” Aisling asks, suddenly crosslegged on the ground in front of him. “I have not been to Ulster in many years.”

His ears seem to perk up at the invitation. “Do you know the way?”

“It is a long journey.” She holds out her hand. “But I have many tales to share.”

Skelly takes it.

_3._

Far from the docks, Mary dances. Her tangled hair twists about as she spins. Her body is frail, her skin pale unto death, but her spirit burns strong. To Aisling, the land itself holds the same contradiction. Men are dying everywhere, though the land is lush and green.

Aisling watches Mary from behind a stand of trees, tail flashing in the sunlight. Mary catches the sight mid-spin and freezes. “You mustn’t appear thus, Aisling,” Mary whispers. “They will hunt you.”

Aisling slips from behind the trees, dissolving from doe to girl. “Why do you stay behind?”

Mary’s eyes glance toward the sea, and her spirit falters. “I cannot dance on the decks of a ship.”

“You may dance in your new home.” Aisling spins a circle around her, her laughter enticing Mary to follow.

Mary does not. “Will you be there?”

Aisling’s mouth closes. It is all the answer Mary needs. 

“Then I will not go.”

“So you stay.” So many in Mary’s family are gone. Those cousins and uncles and aunts who still cling to life and hope are aboard the ship which sways to and fro in the washing waves. “But you stay here alone.”

“Not alone,” Mary argues. Her voice catches in her throat. “With you.”

“I need not food to survive,” Aisling says, her voice small and quiet. “Even if you live, will you leave your dream to starve?”

A bell peals in the distance, a final call for passengers. Does anyone notice Mary is not among the crowd? 

“One more dance, then?” Mary asks, wiping at lashes wet with tears. She pulls her ragged skirts away from thin legs and curtseys. Aisling smiles and bows. The leaves, wind, and grasses of the meadow observe the two reel and jig through a final set dance.

Later, Aisling leaps above the foaming brine, her brilliant scales catching the light, until the end of her tether is reached. Then she stays and watches until Mary’s ship has sailed well beyond the horizon. 

_4._

Aisling is fascinated.

The bicycle wheels spin, circles of metal and rubber that blur and trick the eye. “How does it not fall over?” she asks, her green eyes round with wonder.

“Have you never seen a bicycle before?” Liam rides a wide oval around her, making her bounce with excitement. “And if you think this is keen, you should see a motor car!”

“I have seen both before, silly,” she giggles, appearing on the seat behind him. Throwing her wispy arms around him, she continues. “But motor cars are noisy and smelly. This is so frail, how does it not topple under your weight? What makes it go?”

He smiles at the tickling feel of her closeness. She always makes his heart feel lighter on those days she appears. “I don’t how what keeps it up. But my feet make it go.” He turns his head back to look at her. “Do you want to try?”

“Oh no…” she calls, now at the side of the dirt road. “It is much better to watch.”

Liam shakes his head. “Aisling, you have the funniest ideas about things.” She can transform into almost any animal she chooses, yet bicycles are a wonder.

“How did you obtain it?”

“It was my brother’s.” Liam doesn’t often talk of his brother, lost in the Great War, just one in a series of losses that led to living with his aunt and uncle on their farm. The joy Aisling had touched him with turns melancholy. He straightens out of the circles he had been making on the path and heads toward town. 

“How fast can it go?” Aisling jogs beside him, easily keeping pace.

“Pretty fast. Not as fast as a motor car.”

“Race you to town?” Aisling skips out ahead of him on the path, swirls of dust kicking up in her wake.

Coughing briefly, he pumps the pedals faster to catch up. “I thought you didn’t like going to town.”

“Who would?” Aisling wrinkles her nose. “It’s smelly and noisy.”

“Like a motor car?” he teases.

“And crowded!”

“But exciting! There are people and shops… and films. If I didn’t go to town, I would never see Keaton. Or Chaplin!” He pedals ever faster, but somehow Aisling stays just ahead of him.

“Films? Are they not just books come to life?” she teases back. 

Liam remembers Aisling telling her of the boy whose book contained living images, characters who frolicked between the letters. No book of his ever did that. Not like the movies did. “No, they are so much more, Aisling. You should come with me. See for yourself.”

“Perhaps… if you can keep up!” Aisling races ahead, her hair whipping behind like the tail of a kite in a windstorm. She swoops over a hill ahead of him and disappears from view.

“Hey!” Liam shouts. “No fair cheating!”

Her laughter is his only answer.

He pumps at the pedals with renewed vigor. “I’ll catch you yet!” As Liam crests the rise, legs and arms full of the rush of the chase, he sees the checkpoint a moment too late. Aisling is nowhere in sight. Liam frantically presses the brakes, and they squeal in protest, betraying his presence to the two Black and Tans at the gatehouse.

“Who goes there!” one of them shouts.

He can’t seem to stop. If he crashes into the barrier, he’ll really be in trouble. So he swerves for the hedge. But Aisling scoops him off the bicycle with a whispered “Careful, Liam!” before he crashes into it. The bicycle hits and falls over to its side with a clatter. He turns to thank her, and only sees wide, concerned eyes peeping though the leaves of the hedge.

“How long have they been here?” he asks her. The eyes close and shake back in forth. Liam groans softly. “My aunt told me not to go to town, but I didn’t listen.”

“Identify yourself!” the guard shouts, louder than before. Aisling disappears again.

Liam swallows and pulls his bicycle back onto the road. Pushing it slowly toward the checkpoint, Liam keeps his eyes cast downward, only glancing up once or twice at the looming gatehouse to correct course. He stops several feet away. “I—I am Liam. Liam Mulrennan, sir.”

“Mr. Stuart, check the list.” 

“Yes, Mr. Williams.” Stuart, the second guard, pulls out a clipboard and runs his finger down it.

Liam rushes to explain, “I am going into town. To see a film.” He has done this many times, with and without his aunt’s permission.

Stuart finishes checking the list and gives Williams a negative shake of the head. “Do you have a pass?” Williams asks, face impassive.

Liam slumps. “I need a pass?”

“Go home, boy,” Stuart says, a little more kindly. “Come back with your parents.”

Liam nods and bites his lip. He twists the handlebars and a puff of dust rises from the dry path. When it clears, a pale white cat sits on the handlebars. “Aisling!” he chides her before he can stop himself. She mews in reply.

“Aisling?” Williams crosses his arms over his chest. “Strange name for a cat.”

Liam addresses Aisling to avoid an explanation he doesn’t have. “Why are you here? I have to go home now.” Aisling turns her pink nose toward town and mews again. “I can’t. We—I mean, I—don’t have a pass.”

Aisling leaps from the bicycle and scampers over the barrier.

“Aisling!” Liam cries. Without hesitating, he runs to the barrier. “Please, I have to catch her!”

“It’s just a cat.” Williams frowns. “No pass, no going into town.”

“She won’t be able to find her way home!”

“He’s just a kid,” Stuart says. “Let him get his cat.”

Williams pulls Stuart aside and they murmur furiously at each other. What do they think he is, a spy?

Aisling peeks out from behind a tree trunk, and then rubs her furry white cheek against the bark. Liam shouts, taking the chance, “There she is!”

“Fine,” Williams growls. “But we’re keeping the bicycle as surety.”

Liam nods and climbs the barrier. He doesn’t care. He’s made it to town without the bicycle many times. Aisling races ahead, drawing him out of sight of the guards in minutes.

The next morning, after reenacting most of the film in his dreams, he finds the bicycle leaning against the entrance to the barn. He wonders how it got here—until he sees that the frame is scored with canine teeth marks.

_5._

_”Eze nw'ugo amaka / Ugbene nw'ugo amaka…”_ Swinging her bare feet high in the branches of the tree, the little girl sings. It is a language Aisling doesn’t recognize, but the melody is so clear and bright that it draws Aisling from the skies where she soars.

Aisling alights beside the girl, ruffling her feathers and bobbing her head in greeting. 

“Oh!” the girl cries out, but she does not lose her balance. “Did I call you, Sir Eagle?”

Aisling transforms to girl in a flash. “Sir?” She giggles. “I am a girl, as you can see. I am Aisling.”

The girl’s mouth draws into a small ‘o’ of surprise. “A girl who can fly!”

Aisling shrugs. “And swim, and gallop and leap.” She throws herself backward to swing from her knees on the branch. “Whatever I need to be, I am.”

“How lovely.” The girl scoots closer, completely unafraid. “My name is Azalee. I was born in Nigeria, but just moved here a year ago. Nice to meet you.”

“I was born in the forest, and I have always lived in the forest.” Aisling’s eyes sparkle with interest. “Why are you not afraid? Usually the children I meet are afraid. If not of me, of something.” 

Azalee breathes in deeply and exhales with a wild rush of air. “I don’t know. I just love the forest. I want to live here, too.” She sings a little more of her song. _”I mara mma e...uwa ga-ekwu okwu / I joro njo ee...uwa ga-ekwu okwu._ ” 

Aisling closes her eyes and the melody winds in and around the trunk of the tree. Her body sways and floats on each syllable. “Is that your dream, Azalee?”

Azalee stops singing. “My dream?”

“There is always a dream. Brendan had his drawings, Skelly his tales. Mary had her dancing and Liam his films.” Aisling somersaults up to sit beside Azalee. “You sing.”

“The other kids say I sing too much.” Azalee says as if the concept is foreign to her. “The birds don’t mind.” She reaches out to take Aisling’s hand. “Can you do that again? Become a bird?”

Aisling obliges, this time becoming a dove.

Azalee claps her hands in delight. “I think _that_ is my dream, Aisling. To fly! Can you teach me?”

Aisling tilts her head and considers, then returns to her girl form to say, “In a way.” Aisling thinks of Brendan’s uncle, who wasted years mourning for him, unaware Brendan was alive and well. “Will no one miss you?” 

“My foster mom knows I like to stay out in the woods.” She points to a house just visible through a gap in the trees. “Her house is over there. She won’t miss me until it’s time to eat.” Glancing up at the afternoon sun starting to fall toward the horizon, she asks, “Will it take long?

Aisling shakes her head. “Close your eyes.”

Azalee does, heart full of trust, spirit wide open. Aisling begins to sing, a similar song to the one she sang to Pangur Bán all those years ago. She calls the branches and leaves of the tree to curl around Azalee, and they do, looping and bending around her gladly to shield her from falling. Still singing, Aisling slides a hand down Azalee’s back, and the girl sighs. Her spirit quivers, struggling to break free, and then it does with a burst of unearthly light. Her body gently falls into its protective nest.

Azalee opens her spirit eyes and blinks in wonder. Her mouth forms the ‘o’ again.

Aisling spreads her arms wide and spins in the air. “Want to see more of your new home?” 

Azalee nods.

They fly until the brilliant oranges and reds of sunset paint the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> The various scenes are based on these events: 1) The Coming of St. Patrick and the events of the film, 2) The Statutes of Kilkenny. Skelly’s tale is The Táin Bó Cúailnge, from early Irish literature. 3) The Great Famine and the Diaspora 4) The War of Independence 5) The Foreign Immigration Boom


End file.
